


A Caveat of Demons

by bonebo



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angels and Demons, Mad King Ryan, and underworld creatures oh my, mainly Mavin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>One starless night a lost young angel descended from heaven, and in his search to find his way home he paused over an opening to Hell. While there he saw a creature, sitting crouched and huddled away in the shadows and gnawing at the very heart from its chest. The angel cautiously approached the creature, and he asked in fear and awe, “Is it good?"<br/>And the creature looked up, eyes gleaming and dead and thick black blood dripping from its fangs, and it replied, “It is <b>bitter</b>, and I like it because it is bitter, and because it is <b>mine</b>.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

In the dank darkness of the deepest cavern of Hell, red eyes glowed. 

The small cave was lit by a fire that burned at the very center of the room, red-hot tongues of flame lashing out of the earth's very core and casting a pale orange glow to the blackened rocks that made up the cavern—and to the bodies that moved within it. Ranging in size from eight to three feet tall, fat to skeletal, over half a dozen figures were in constant motion around the fire; cautious and cowed, they crept as close as they dared, and when the flames suddenly turned black and rabid and the coal and dust beneath their feet began to quake, they all scrambled away. They huddled along the craggy walls of the cavern with eyes wide and bodies crouched, twisted claws gouging into the glistening black stone, and watched with fearful rapture as the flames churned.

Except for one.

One male, body muscled and stout, approached the fire with blood-red eyes and his mouth twisted in a faint snarl, the barest hint of a razor-sharp fang gleaming against his lip. He stood beside the fire as it thrashed black and crazed, the flames doubling in size and burning with enough intensity to make his auburn hair flutter around the ram horns that curled under his ears. As he watched a toothless mouth yawned wide in the very midst of the fire, and a shrill screech sounded from within; the figures against the walls shuddered, grimacing in the darkness, but the figure beside the fire narrowed his eyes and drew in the leathery black wings on his back. 

“Enough,” he hissed, reaching into the flames, one clawed hand closing around the throat of the creature within, squeezing until its cry faded to a rattling wheeze. Skeletal hands, muscle still building upon them, scrabbled weakly at the attacker's wrist, and in response he tightened his grip and jerked hard.

A half-formed, humanoid body was pulled from the fire and tossed upon the ground, where it writhed and thrashed and screamed; the demon watched coldly as ash from the fire settled over the creature's bones, hardening into muscle and dark grey skin, until an emaciated, lanky figure lay huddled and shaking on the coal. 

He scowled and kicked the newly-born demon with a booted foot, glaring into the wide yellow eyes that flicked up to meet his own; it took all of three seconds for the young demon to bow out of the challenge, dropping its gaze and flattening itself to the floor. It stayed there, trembling and silent, as the male turned away.

“Pathetic.” He pulled a short, jet-black dagger from the belt around his jeans, lying it flat in his palm and scratching his fingers lightly along the blade; black blood beaded at his fingertips, and his lip curled. “Another fucking Nox, as if we don't have enough of you useless fuckers crawling around all over the goddamn place...”

Swiftly the male spun back around, fist closing tight around the hilt of the dagger a second before he sank it deep into the newly-born Nox's flesh, working the blade between the young demon's ribs. He shot the creature a fanged smirk as it screeched, blood spilling thick and cold down its back, before tearing the blade down with enough force to break the fragile bones and jerking it back out. 

“So go right back where you came from,” the demon hissed coldly, pausing only to wipe the blade off on his pants—the denim was dark enough to conceal the blood, but he didn't really care—before straightening up and heading toward the exit of the cavern. The dying demon's wails sounded behind him, shrill and agonized as its body dissolved back into the ash that had formed it; the other demons still crouching along the walls shuffled to make room for him as he passed, huddling against one another and granting him a wide berth. Their eyes, a dark blend of yellows and oranges, watched him with a fearful reverence as he walked out of the chamber—which, he thought bitterly to himself, they damn well should.

After all, these low-rank demons knew next to nothing about him—not his name, not his age, not his manner of death. But his stories preceded him, his reputation clawing fear from them before he even stepped in the room, and for all the mystery that remained shrouded around him, one thing was clear—he was on a warpath, a bloodied trail for revenge.

And nothing—not even the spawns of the deepest pits of Hell—would stand in his way.


	2. Chapter 1

They call him a Walking Suicide. 

(If he's honest, he has to admit he's not overly fond of the name—it's fucking pretentious, he thinks, nothing more than a menacing title handy for intimidating others and making him sound like an asshole.)

But as it stands he's in the second-highest of four classes of demon, called a Timor, and he falls into the lowest of the class's two divisions; the other is a Scorcher, and though he's only met a handful of them, he already knows they're always fucking pricks, to be avoided if possible. Below him in class are the Caligo, with their crooked little wings and stupid stunted horns, and then below that are the Nox, legions of grey-skinned cowardly fucks with half a brain and double doses of stupidity, responsible for making humans cry and getting in the way of everybody else. 

But enough of politics. 

He's back to his den by now—it's a brief trip from the birthing caves, just a quick climb over a short spine of obsidian crags to reach the lairs that are tucked into the far wall of the cavern that houses it all.   
It's similar to bats, he thinks, in that the far wall is littered with holes that burrow some twenty feet deep into the earth; the holes are roughly carved out by hand, all of various length, and these are the dens. It's easy enough to tell which holes belong to which ranks (obviously a wingless Nox will not reside half a mile off the ground), but there he pulls an abnormality. 

His den is set away from the groups and low, barely five feet off the ground. In comparison to the other dens it's huge, twice as wide and at least thirty feet deep; he can remember digging until his claws were chipped away to nothing, until his fingertips leaked blood that smeared black along the walls, and being satisfied enough to keep going. 

He walks inside slowly, peering around in the darkness at the bare rock within, and a hissed sigh leaves him; of course the room is bare. Demons (especially of his class) rarely would ever choose to spend time in their lairs, lying upon the hot rocky floor and starving in the misery around them, so what would be the point of decorating? Nevertheless, he clicks his fangs together irritably before backing right out of the den, pausing only when he catches a glimpse of himself in a facet of worn-shiny obsidian that makes up a stretch of the north wall.

It's sunken red eyes set in a pale face, fangs whose tips gleam at his lips when he wrinkles his nose in distaste; once upon a time he knew this body, knew this face and knew himself. Now all he can see is pure monster, the stuff of nightmares, ram horns that protrude from his curly red hair and a set of large black wings upon his shoulders.

(They're burdened with spikes, and he can't help but feel a ghost of an aftershock rush through him as he remembers what they mean.)

“Walking Suicide,” he mutters to himself, not for the first time, and yet again he finds himself debating; he holds one ivory claw to his nonexistent pulse, applies pressure enough to feel a short rush of prickling pain, and immediately eases up. His eyes narrow as he wonders. “What—”

He looks toward the mouth of the den as he hears a sharp shout followed by a collection of voices shrieking, and his claw falls as a scowl settles upon his face; undoubtedly, it's more stupid-ass Nox disturbing the misery again. He swears he'll kill the first one he touches.

With that he decides to leave his lair, pushing the thoughts from his mind; the wonders, the glimmering hints of memory that dance just beyond his reach, flitting away only when he gets closer. Still, part of him mulls at the term Walking Suicide, at the rank and the class, and in an almost-desperate rush he clamps down on a decision that if he didn't have the label he'd be no one, nothing.

(It's too late to change his mind now, anyway.)

Years ago he was called Michael Jones, but so few address him by that name now—it is all but forgotten, dead along with everything else he once called home.


	3. Chapter 3

Michael soon reaches the common area, a barren plain of red earth that stretches out in front of the den wall seemingly endlessly, and a sigh leaves him at what he sees—there's Nox, sure, two of the little fuckers sprawled out on the ground and wailing, but standing over them is another demon, with skin a lighter shade of ash and two small, crooked black wings upon his shoulderblades, a mischievous amusement making his yellow eyes gleam dully. 

(The bags beneath them are permanent, Michael assumes.)

“Geoff.” Michael can't help but raise a brow at his old friend, unable to contain his own slight grin as he walks closer. The two Nox lying at his feet freeze—one looks up, and her eyes widen at the sight of Michael. She immediately falls silent, quivering as Michael asks, “What the hell happened here?” 

“Oh, y'know, just some housecleaning.” Geoff gives a booted kick to the girl's thigh, and she scrambles up with a shrill noise before bolting away. Michael doesn't have to watch her leave to know that in seconds she'll disappear, swallowed up by the neverending darkness. “Nothing you higher-ups need concern yourself with—just a few disturbances in the lower class, is all.”

Michael rolls his eyes, stepping over the other trembling Nox to walk past Geoff, away from the dens. There's a cloying sense of something forgotten that clings to them, makes his stomach churn. “You know I fucking hate that class and rank bullshit.” 

“You hate most things.” But Geoff's voice is light, teasing, as he follows; Michael shoots him a flat look and loftily answers, “That's because most things suck.”

“According to you.” Geoff stuffs his hands into the pockets on his tattered jeans, leans back a little as he stretches, then glances up; a small cluster of about a dozen demons soars through the air overhead, dark against the red clay of the ceiling far beyond, and Geoff frowns. His shoulders tense.

Michael cuts his gaze toward the lower-rank demon, raises a brow. “...not jealous, are you?”

“Of course not.” But Geoff's voice is guarded; he glances back at Michael, then shrugs and looks away again. “I'm trying to convert, remember? The lower I am, the easier it is. Why would I want to be a high-class winged son of a bitch?”

Michael snorts, but can't deny that the statement is true—while incredibly rare, it was technically possible for demons to do enough good, halt enough evil, to earn themselves a second shot at heaven. Geoff had told him countless stories of the beautiful girl he'd loved while alive, and the sincerity had been raw in his voice when he promised that he'd find a way to redeem himself, to become an angel and spend all of eternity with her.

Decades of trial and failure have made Michael think that it's all bullshit, but for his friend's sake, he refrains from saying so.

Both demons are spared any continuance of the conversation as suddenly a rush of black comes racing up behind Geoff, stopping only when it stands before the two. The thin, wispy smoke forms an impossibly lean canine figure, standing on too-thin legs and lashing its whip-like tail back and forth behind it. Its jaws part wide, and Michael can see down into the thing's body, can see the orange and yellow magma that pulses in the place of organs to keep it alive. 

It's called a pallor, a beast created only by demons of Michael's class or higher, mainly used to deliver messages or supplies. Coming to him, where he currently is, can only mean one thing.

 _”Your presence is requested by the King immediately.”_ The voice that comes from the pallor is at once a high-pitched squeal and the lowest growl, unsettling enough to raise the hairs along the back of Michael's neck. He nods once, curtly, looking the pallor dead in its glowing white eyes as he replies, “I'll be there shortly.”

The beast immediately whirls around and bounds away, slipping into a heavy shadow to disappear until nothing but a wisp of smoke remains, and Michael can feel Geoff's eyes upon him. He glances over, raising a brow, already feeling the slightest of grins pull at his lips. “What?”

Geoff just stares at him, something in his eyes envious, something else wary. “...the King?”

“Well I don't know, Geoff, did it say the King?” Michael rolls his eyes, his strides a little longer as he starts to walk again. Mounting excitement makes his blood race. “Because I couldn't tell—maybe it said my fucking dear aunt Sally. I don't fucking know.”

Geoff pays no attention to the quip, following Michael along and muttering again to himself, “The King.” Michael just snorts.

In all actuality, it's not even a fitting title. King implies supreme rule over a realm; and if the realm is all of the underworld, the King they speak of is not truly its main commander. But with the underworld being so huge, it would be impractical to have only one person try to run it—so it is divided into sectors, with each sector being controlled by a King.

It just so happens that Sector 13, where Michael resides, is ruled by the maddest of them all.


	4. Chapter 4

That doesn't mean, however, that visits to the King aren't—almost always—a pleasure.

It's a short trip to the palace when Michael flies; all he has to do is turn inward, toward the center of the underworld, and it's a straight shot from there. The palace itself is easy to spot from the air—it's one sharp-edged black building sitting proudly against the redstone ground, craggy towers clawing at the ceiling, and when Michael touches down in front of the short marble staircase he's struck yet again by the utter reverence this huge castle demands. 

He takes a breath to steady himself before climbing the stairs, fists clenched to keep his hands from shaking; he glances up, and of course there are guard pallors on their feet now, lithe bodies smoldering as they slink in front of the door. Their eyes fix upon Michael, glowing and ethereal and looking into him, _through_ him, and for a moment he's unnerved. 

Then the moment passes. 

“Back up, you little shits,” he mutters, waving a hand at one; its lips draw back and he can see a glint of bone-white fang, but obediently the spirits back away, until Michael is left standing alone in front of the door. It's tall and made from ivory, covered with flames carved so intricately that Michael half-thinks that if he reached out and touched them he'd be burned. 

But nonetheless, he sets a hand upon one brass handle and pulls the door open. There's no entrance hall, no winding corridor—just a throne room a hundred yards long, and at the end of it, a set of stairs that lead to who knows where. Michael quickly steps in, glancing down at his blurred reflection in the polished obsidian floor, and can't stop a grin from growing on his face; here the air is cold, the light nothing but torches mounted upon the towering walls, and it makes him ache for home yet feel more alive than ever.

He can smell the blood that has been shed here, the death that has occurred, and it's positively _intoxicating_. 

But Michael tears himself away from his hunger and reflection to glance across the room; a fire set into the very far wall makes shadows flicker across the walls, and from here he can see the back of a tall throne cast in darkness. 

The King's chair.

He doesn't need to make his presence known—the king knows and sees all, and even if he didn't, the thud of Michael's boots along the floor would be indication enough of his company. He stops only when he is behind the throne, close enough to see the clawed golden feet, the black satin cushions—

_The bloodstains that litter the floor._

“My king,” Michael murmurs, sinking to one knee and bowing his head, wings drawing in to his shoulders; here, one simple act of insubordination is enough to get a person killed. He's far from a submissive person, sure, but against such a raw, unpredictable power, Michael's not going to take any chances. “You sent for me?”

“Aye, Michael.” The king's voice is low and smooth, like black silk or blood wine—he speaks easily, but hearing his name upon the king's lips still makes Michael shudder. That voice has decreed the death of millions. “I have a mission for you...a task I think you will be well-suited to.”

Michael's interest piques, and he dares to glance up—but of course, his king hasn't even gotten up from the throne to address him, so all Michael sees is the back of his chair. He thinks he can make out a hand in the dim light, fingers tapping idly along one armrest. 

“A mission?” he repeats, trying to keep his excitement in check. Mission, quest, task; his king words them differently, but they all mean the same thing—

And his king answers the unspoken question for him. “A hunt.” 

_Finally._ Michael can't help but grin, and flicks his tongue over the sharp edge of one fang, already anticipating the bloodshed. “A hunt sounds like just the thing I've been needing lately, your Majesty.”

“Aye.” His king sounds amused now, and leans to the side of his throne to glance Michael's way; his face is heavily shadowed still, but Michael can see his profile: the thick horns that curl under his jaw, the second subset that spike out to the back of his head. His red eyes all but glow in the darkness. “You are nothing if not my warrior, Michael. My most trusted, most feared blade. I trust that you would dare not leave any task I give you unfinished...that you would not disappoint me.”

Michael's response comes in a heartbeat, sure and sincere. “I would never, my lord.”

“Good.” Black lips curl into a wicked grin, revealing fangs too mangled and razor-sharp to ever be called teeth—dimly Michael wonders if his King was ever truly a human, ever not a monster. “Your targets are two angels currently residing over the Albuquerque area. They are low-rank, barely worth your skills...track them if you have to. I expect nothing short of slaughter,” he adds lowly, something in his voice darkening. 

Michael nods once; an angel execution is nothing new for him. Being a higher-rank demon, it is a task he is expected to perform, even if it is more difficult than killing or maiming a human. “You shall have it, my King.” 

“Good.” The king leans back, hiding from view again, eyes boring into the fire and watching the flames—watching the world within them, visions of various demons' activities flickering through the fire like a choppy movie. “Now go.”

Michael stands and all but runs out of the palace, hand already going to the sword at his belt; and King Haywood, watching two Caligo demons hold an angel down and slice off its wings, smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

_Nothing could have prepared him for this._

_Heart racing, he ran down the alleyway, the pounding of hoofbeats at his back; he'd heard the rumors muttered in the pubs when he walked in, felt the eyes upon him as he walked down the streets at night. He'd known he wasn't well-liked among the town, but this...this he hadn't expected._

_His boots slid along the cobblestone as he turned a corner, and he looked up sharply—there it was, the blacksmith shop, not more than a block away. His lover's work, with the cozy little home built into the basement, his sanctuary; there he could go, and he would be protected, he would be safe. His boy would still be working, he knew, raining hammer down upon anvil despite the way the sun was starting to sink low in the sky._

_His boy worked tirelessly, all for enough pay to keep two bellies fed and two bodies clothed, and hopefully would not be too exhausted to protect him tonight._

_The hoofbeats got louder as he ran toward the store, and he heard the yells and shouts of the mob behind him—a gang, really, three men with too much hatred in their blood and alcohol on their breath. They'd chased him from his own work down at the bar what seemed like a lifetime ago, and it was through sheer luck and terror that he'd managed to outrun and dodge their horses so far._

_But he had been weary two blocks ago. Now his legs were lead._

_The staccato clip-clop chasing him kept his feet swift, however, kept his chest heaving for air as he ran; they'd kill him, he knew, if they could just get to him. They'd had it on their minds for weeks, told him more than once, when he dared to leave his boy's side—they'd grab him, they'd skin him, they'd gut him and hang him for all to see. They'd make an example of him._

_No more filth-blooded Tories would live in their little town._

_He was panting hard by the time he reached the next block, and glanced back; the horses were gaining, and fast. Their riders screamed as they spurred their mounts on, waving weapons overhead, and he whipped his head back around quickly, eyes wide with renewed fear._

_He wouldn't—couldn't—make it in time._

_Still he screamed his boy's name, even as he was overtaken, as hooves ran up beside him and the blunt end of a mattock slammed into his back. He hit the ground rolling, and tried to stagger to his feet despite the pain that flared along his spine, lifting his head just in time to have a rifle stock slapped across his face._

_Back down he went, landing hard on his back, and he stared up at the dusky sky with a blank gaze; he could only lay and wheeze as the riders advanced upon him, leering faces working their way into his dimmed sight, their voices muffled as if speaking from far away._

_Pain shot along his side, and he rolled with the force of the kick, ending up on his stomach; his hair was grabbed and he was hoisted up, stumbling on his feet before collapsing back against the body that held him. Thick arms wrapped tight around his throat and navel, and he had all of two seconds to blearily study the man in front of him before another rifle butt was jammed between his eyes._

_The pain was overwhelming, enough to make him cry out; the arm around his throat tightened and he choked, hands coming up to weakly pry at the hard muscle, to no avail. Again the rifle struck him, this time across the gut, and his body bucked against his restraints as he coughed blood._

_The riders grew louder as they continued to beat him, until all he knew was their noise and his pain; over and over they struck with rifle and mattock, and he could feel the blood building upon him, from his forehead to his nose, his lip to his temple. It was only after the fifth mattock strike to the head that his vision blurred, the voices around him suddenly fading out to a single high-pitched hum, and for one heartstopping moment of clarity he knew he was going to die._

_Again he watched the mattock come at him, metal striking hard against his temple, and his eyes slid closed; he slumped against the arms holding him, going lax against the patriot, and felt nothing but pressure against his body when he was dropped to the ground._

_The humming faded for a moment, and he heard more shouts—but these were of fear and not wrath, punctuated by the biting patter of bullets, and as his hearing slipped into single pitch again he forced his eyes open. He could see a blurry man rushing toward him, but couldn't move when the same man crouched in front of him, arms going out to pull him close; he could see the other's lips moving, but could only guess at what his frantic words meant, for everything around him was lost in the hum. His own body felt cold, distant as he was held against a muscled chest._

_Drawing the last of his strength, he made his eyes focus on the face of his savior, and his bloodied lips twisted into a small smile—it was his boy, a moment too late to save him, but still just in time to wish him goodbye, and for just a few seconds his heart was at peace. What else could he wish for, as his final sight? Not wanting to taint the memory, he closed his eyes, and as he felt warm wetness fall upon his cheeks his mind sluggishly struggled for what to do, something he could say..._

Gavin Free opens his eyes to a room cast in gold.


	6. Chapter 6

Gold bedspread, gold walls, golden floor with a silver baseboard trim—honestly, if Gavin didn't know he was dead and in heaven, all he'd have to do is look around his bedroom to find out. And, really, the fact that he has a bedroom at all was amusing for the first decade he was here; the dead obviously don't need to sleep, and Gavin always feels completely rested and full of energy, but he can't deny that being able to lay down for a nap whenever he wants is a luxury he enjoys. 

Perhaps a little too much, given that it is currently 2:03 in the afternoon and he has yet to get out of bed. 

Gavin stretches his arms over his head as he kicks at the blankets, freeing himself to stand; as soon as he does, he bends and stretches his wings out to full capacity, taking a moment to pause and admire them yet again.

Gavin is only a Spero, the second-lowest class of angel, and he knows he's nothing special—the wings on his back are not golden, they are not huge, but they are soft and white and fluffy and he feels no shame in saying that he loves the simple beauty of them. The halo that hovers over his head is not exceptionally bright, it is a yellow-gold and nowhere near the white of the higher-ranking angels, but still he loves it.

He finds that here, he wants for nothing.

Gavin stands in front of the mirror to unabashedly admire himself, eyes noting the ruffle of one feather on his right wing, the way his white sleep shirt is wrinkled. The hems of his fleece pants drag along the floor as he walks over to his dresser, and he paws through the papers that scatter the top to grab for his necklace—it's a small thing, simple like everything else he owns, just an emerald wrapped in wire attached to a silver chain, and—

_The room was lit by firelight, empty save for the two of them, and yet Gavin felt safe; he looked over to the man beside him, and couldn't stop his smile as he noted the callouses on his hands, the rumple to his clothes that meant he'd been working hard, all day, just for them._

_His lovely little boy, with a tired grin on his face as he reached out and draped a chain around Gavin's neck, bending his head to kiss under Gavin's ear. “I know it's not exactly what you wanted...but I tried.”_

_And Gavin looked down at the beautiful gem lying against his flesh, fingered the facets that gleamed in the flickering light, and couldn't stop his smile; a glance up found his boy smiling back, and Gavin threw his arms about him and hugged tightly, and if there was any fault in the night neither knew, too wrapped up were they in each other._

Gavin sucks in a breath and stumbles backward, struck hard by the force of the memory, and stares down at the jewel in his hand; slowly he clasps it around his neck, tightens his fist around the emerald as it hangs, and as he crawls back into his golden bed he thinks that perhaps this land of gold and perfection is lacking after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, and I'm sorry--I'm currently dealing with a lack of wi-fi due to moving and such, but I hope to have longer, more fulfilling chapters out as soon as I can. Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

Miles below a city wrapped in gold, Michael is locked in a battle that he has been woefully unprepared for.

His King had told him of two angels, low-rank and easy to kill—but what he hadn't told was that these two nameless angels had been guarding a shrine, where three other angels, all of a class high enough to rival Michael's own, congregated.

The slaughter of the two angels was quick enough; Michael's black blade tore through their flesh and he watched them bleed gold with satisfaction, with pride. But when the air around him warmed he glanced back, and there was the horde, charging him with their own weapons drawn.

Now they are battling, locked in midair, and Michael can say with some certainty that this fight—the first one in too long—is truly a challenge. Forced to defend himself against the strikes of three blessed crystal blades, the only attacks he can make are rushed and desperate; time and time again he finds his sword parried, his rush blocked, his strategy unraveled by the disadvantage of a triple-team. Black drips from shallow wounds along his arms that he couldn't defend against.

“Stop this foolishness,” one angel finally snarls, eyes narrowed behind his glasses; Michael spits at him, lunges in for a strike at his throat, is sent careening backward by the other two angels rushing forward. “You're outmatched. Go home!”

“And give up?” With a strong flap of his wings Michael is righted again, and he pauses to glare at the three beings that hover before him, notes the way the heaving of their shoulders matches his own. Good. “I pride myself on never disappointing my king, _devout one_. I will not leave here until your blood coats my hands and your lives are no more!”

The same angel sighs, a look of genuine sorrow crossing his face. Michael recoils at the sudden flip in emotion, fangs bared. “So much loyalty to give...yet all to a faulted cause, all doomed to failure.”

“I will not fail!” And with a roar Michael lunges back into the battle, rage rekindled, body fueled by his anger. He feels his blood singing through his veins as he slashes and strikes, everything suddenly clear in his focused wrath; his eyes dart to the youngest of the three angels, note the way his left wrist trembles when he clashes his blade to Michael's, see the grimace on his face. And with a breathy hiss Michael angles his sword to swipe at that wrist, cutting through bone just in time to duck and miss another crystal blade aiming for his neck. The angel cries out as Michael darts back into the fray, and his blade catches on flesh as he flies right back out, leaving liquid gold dripping in his wake.

Now the angels are afraid—Michael can sense it. He has drawn first blood, and they know that in this, he has chipped away a chunk of his disadvantage. As Michael hovers over them he grins, bringing his sword up to his lips; his pale tongue flicks out, collects from the trickle of gilt that coats his blade, and even as the eldest angel is charging it's too late.

As soon as the angel blood touches his tongue Michael is on fire. With a snarl he meets the eldest angel in midair, blade a blur as he parries a strike and slashes at an exposed throat; then he's gone again, flitting away quick as a shadow in sunlight, appearing behind the only uninjured angel and swinging with all his might at one finely-feathered wing. Bones split for him and the angel is screaming as he careens downward, spiraling toward the ground with Michael chasing him down and screeching.

This is what he exists for—this is what he craves. This battle-high, as his sword tears through holy flesh and gold splatters the earth below; this rush, as he rolls through the air just in time to impale the young angel charging at him through the stomach. He kicks the body off his sword and swings around, watching with faint interest as the wounded angel crashes into the ground below, not six feet from his comrade and body already twitching with death. But the blood is still hot on Michael's tongue, and bloodlust is still roaring through him, so it is with glee that he charges the only remaining angel with sword drawn and ready—

Just to careen to a halt as a Pallor, huge and sleek and wispy, slides to a crouch in front of him.

“What—“ Michael's cry is cut off by a snarl, and he bristles as he recognizes the voice; he doesn't even need to watch as another demon appears behind the terrified angel and slams his sword through his chest. Red eyes, rimmed with dark grey, flick up to meet his own, and Michael hisses. 

“You fucking asshole, Kerry!” he roars, flying over the Pallor to hover in front of the Scorcher; the angel between them slumps, and then his body dissolves into mist, and he is gone. Michael couldn't care less, at the moment. “I had this fight under control!”

“Like hell.” Kerry wrinkles his nose as he pulls a rag from his jeans pocket, wiping the gold from his sword; he glances up at Michael, scoffs. “Is that why you're bleeding? Or why those bodies are so messily wounded?”

“It was three on one, and they were fucking Vis!” Michael snaps hotly, wings flaring out in his anger. “I'd like to see you do any fucking better!”

Kerry's eyes hood slightly, a faint grin tugging at his lips and exposing one fang. When he speaks, his voice is softer, poisonous. “...oh, trust me, Michael. I would have.”

“Shut your fucking stupid mouth, bitch.” Michael spits at him, his battle-high ruined, and whips around; he's already braced as Kerry leaps at him in midair, grabbing at his wings and trying to wrestle him to the ground, and slams an elbow back into the Scorcher's stomach. He earns a yelp and the release of his wings, and he takes advantage of both to quickly whirl backward, sword drawn—he halts as he feels cold metal biting at his own throat, and stares at Kerry as they stand deadlocked, each holding the other at sword-point.

“I'll never understand what King Haywood sees in you,” Kerry hisses, eyes cold and dark and angry; Michael pauses, then leers, leaning forward a little. It's worth the pain to see the way Kerry's eyes widen. 

“You don't have to see.” The words fall from his lips slowly, laced with smugness and venom. “All you have to do is listen and obey, and prepare yourself for when your rank is _mine_.”

And with a grin Michael falls backward, letting himself hurtle through the air as he sheathes his blade; barely five feet off the ground he pulls up hard, wings stretching out as he shoots along the ground at high-speed, heading to the nearest portal. 

Kerry may have disgraced him, in this one instance—Michael holds his hand out as he soars, claws raking across a barn as he passes, leaving deep gouges in the old wood. 

But Michael knows he will have his revenge.


	8. Chapter 8

Gavin is late.

Lip bitten, he soars through the skies of heaven, eyes trained on the ground below and searching—he's never actually been to the temple before, because there's an unspoken rule that the temple is reserved for angels that are higher in rank than he is, reserved for important business and affairs.

Hence why he'd been so stunned when he'd gotten the summons yesterday.

But still, it's easy enough to spot it when he flies over it; huge and white, it glitters against the dark green of the ground, its round spires reaching out toward the sky as if to catch any angel that might happen to need a little rest. It's beautiful, truly, sparkling and round and majestic, and so caught up is he in staring that he flies right past it.

“Bollocks.” 

A sharp turn and he's back, spiraling down to the ground and landing with a small hop. As soon as he's steady he looks around, looks ahead—there's already a few angels gathered here, some lounged on the gleaming quartz staircase and others on the lawn, but it's a set of familiar, dusky wings that he knows that makes him grin.

“Oi! Ray!”

An angel turns at the voice, adjusting the glasses on his face, and waves. “Hey, Gavin!”

“What're you doing here?” Gavin asks as he hurries over, looking around Ray—he seems to be alone, for all Gavin can tell. 

Ray watches Gavin peer around and barely stifles a laugh. “I had some business to handle. Reassignment stuff and all that.”

“Reassignment?” Gavin looks up at him, brows furrowed. “That's the...the diddly with the living people, right? The watching and stuff?”

“Yeah.” Ray nods, amused. “The diddly with the living people. Nailed it.”

“Oh, shut up.” Gavin swats at him, grinning still. “I'm not some big shot like you. I haven't been assigned yet, remember? All these high-up blokes around me, and I'm just—“

“You're late,” a deep voice interrupts him, and Gavin cringes.

“I, uh...I know.” He slowly turns, hoping against all hope, and yes—yes, there is none other than Jack Patillo, standing right there in front of him. With his tawny wings—huge, and Gavin wonders at it, they're much larger than his own or any other pair he's seen so far, even Ray's—drawn up behind him, his broad shoulders squared, and the halo burning pure white over his head, he could make for quite an intimidating picture.

But standing before him, Gavin realizes he's not afraid.

“...hi, Jack,” he starts, looking up at him sheepishly, and Jack sighs, the slight frown still in place on his face. It's not angry, Gavin knows—more disappointed, mildly amused.

“Gavin.” He returns the greeting with a nod, then takes a step backward, sweeping his arm out toward the temple doors. “Now that you've decided to arrive, shall we begin?”

Gavin's gaze darts from Jack's face to his hand, then to the temple beyond, and he glances back at Ray—Ray flashes him a grin and two thumbs up, and Gavin lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

“Yeah. Let's.”

Confidence steeled and wings slightly fluffed in his lingering nervousness, Gavin follows Jack into the temple.


	9. Chapter 9

“So this is your first Assignment.” It's not a question, more an easy statement. Jack settles comfortably into one of the large leather chairs that litter the—can Gavin call it a study?—the _room_ , hands steepled together in his lap and chestnut-edged wings loosely folded. His gaze is steady and not unkind, but intense behind his glasses as he studies Gavin's face; there's a desk between them, dark mahogany and bare, and it seems like its only function is to reinforce how large Jack actually is.

Gavin squirms in his seat.

“Oh—yes,” he stammers after a moment, Jack's silent gaze suddenly reminding him that he is expected to respond when he is spoken to. “Yes. My first one. Yep.”

Jack slowly raises one brow. “...Alright.” He pulls a drawer out of the desk and fishes around inside, soon emerging with a huge book, bound in weathered leather and gleaming faintly with gold. He sets it between them with a solid-sounding _thunk_. “So you don't even have any idea why you're here, do you?”

“Uh...no, actually.” Gavin tries to grin sheepishly, watches Jack's expression, and wonders how successful he was. “No. I don't.”

“Okay.” Jack glances down at the book and begins to idly turn pages, unhurried; Gavin chances a peek, and sees rows and rows of names lining the pages in shimmering golden ink. “Then let me explain to you how things work around here.

“Our Overworld is massive—naturally—and takes many, many angels to run efficiently. These angels are divided up depending on what their role is—be it records-keeping, welcoming the new arrivals, monitoring the activity of the Underworld, or any of the dozen other tasks. Every angel has a job, and yours...” Jack pauses, his lips quirking in the beginnings of an amused smile. “You, Gavin, are a Guardian.”

“...A Guardian,” Gavin repeats; somehow, it seems that when it leaves his lips, the word loses its impressiveness. “And that...means what, exactly?”

Jack sweeps his arms out wide, gesturing to the room. “That means that you need to be Assigned. You'll be given one human, and your job is to protect and watch over them until the day they die. Primarily, you're trying to keep them from being baited by the Underworld, the demons that seek to destroy us...but it also helps if you keep them alive.” He pauses here, letting that information sink in, then continues, “Do you have anyone in mind?”

 _A human?_ Gavin is quiet, thinking; he opens his mouth, ready to say no, until suddenly memories of fires and emeralds rush over him, chill him from head to toe—he finds himself breathless, suddenly, and almost throws a kink into his neck nodding so quickly. “Yes! His name—Michael! Michael Jones, Michael Vincent Jones.”

Jack raises a brow, but nods, turning pages again. It's not the first time he's been met with such a reaction; some angels did leave loved ones behind in the Midworld, after all, and what could be better than the chance to protect them from harm? He glances down at the book as he reaches the J's, a small smile on his face—

And it immediately falls.

“...Gavin...we have a problem.”

__

“Two more angels slaughtered, my liege.”

Ryan looks away from the crackling fire to glance to his right; Kerry stands there, smug from his wings to his claws and still reeking of divine blood, undoubtedly waiting for a word of praise for completing his mission.

Not that it had been a hard one.

“Good,” Ryan says anyway, deciding to humor the Scorcher; it _had_ been a particularly vicious raid, all things considered. And stoking Kerry's ego couldn't hurt Ryan, in the long run, if all it did was keep him loyal and craving praise. “Did you bring what I requested?”

“Of course, my lord.” Kerry reaches into the pocket of his tattered leather jacket and withdraws four small vials, each filled to the brim with shimmering golden liquid.

Ryan takes the vials from his hand, holding them up to the torchlight to see through them. “Angel blood.” He gives one vial a lazy swirl, watching liquid gold softly splash onto the glass walls. “Potent...powerful. There's enough in this one vial alone to fortify twenty demons.”

 _ **But more will be necessary,**_ growls something in Ryan's mind, a voice low and dark and grating. Ryan grits his teeth, misses the way Kerry's eyes gleam. _I know._

“Dismissed, Kerry,” he mutters, rising to his feet; Kerry nods and bows, and in a rush of ashen wings is gone. Ryan doesn't bother to watch him leave as he walks toward the end of the throne room, toward the door set into the wall.

 _ **Come, Haywood. Payment is due...**_ The voice drifts through the door, louder in Ryan's head the nearer he comes. 

Scowling to himself, he opens the door.


	10. Chapter 10

“A _what_?”

Jack sighs as Gavin stares, his eyes wide, disbelieving. He was afraid this would happen.

“Michael's a—he can't be!” Gavin stands, his wings fluffed up in agitation, hands fists by his sides. “He _can't_ be, Jack, there's no way!”

“Gavin...” Jack frowns, turning the book around and pointing to the bottom of the page—there, in that same glowing golden script, is _Michael Vincent Jones: Demon (Walking Suicide)_. “Look. The book doesn't lie, and neither do I. I'm sorry.”

Gavin stares at the page, then shakes his head in denial, taking a step back. “I...” He looks to the door, and quickly makes a dash for it; he's stopped as suddenly there's a hand upon his bicep, holding him firmly. 

“Gavin.” Jack's voice is softer now as he studies the younger angel, brows furrowed. “I know that this is an...unfortunate turn of events, but even so, I've rarely seen this kind of reaction to such news. Why are you so upset?”

Gavin hesitates, looking to the door again with an expression of longing, but Jack's grip remains firm—there's something here that he isn't seeing, something here that's deeper than just the grief of a loved one turned evil. Something's missing, and when Jack repeats Gavin's name, pressing him, he finally gets anguished eyes back on his face. 

“Jack...I didn't even know he was _dead_.”

Silence reigns in the room. 

Tearing himself out of the slackened grip, Gavin turns and runs.

__

 

He returns just as the setting sun is lighting the dusky sky in flame, and trudges up the stairs of the great alter to find Jack already standing at the door. He's got his wings pulled in, muscled arms crossed over his chest, and when Gavin looks up the dying sun plays off the tawniness to Jack's feathers and the warmth of Jack's frame and seems to light him up in gold.

It's disheartening, and Gavin's gaze drops. “...sorry I ran out on you, earlier.”

“Don't worry about it.” Jack starts to walk, steady strides soon passing him; Gavin stares up at the alter doors for a just a moment before he turns, slowly following. “Do you remember him?”

“Remember...Michael?” Gavin frowns, brows furrowing—surely. He has to, right? They loved each other, there was no way he could forget...

_Forget brown eyes meeting his and fingertips brushing against his thigh, Michael's breath against his jaw; it was cold, out on the streets where the storm raged, but in their little house below Michael's shop everything was warm and soft and lit by the ever-shifting glow of the fire. It was perfect, always had been, and always would be._

“Yeah,” Gavin murmurs, offering the ground below him a sad smile. “Yeah, I remember Michael...why?”

“Because not all of those who pass remember the lives they left behind,” Jack tells him, cutting his stride so he can walk by Gavin's side. “It's most commonly a thing that's reserved as punishment for the demons below, but it can happen to angels, too. Sometimes everything just doesn't carry over. You should count yourself lucky that you remember Michael.”

Gavin's quiet for a moment, looking around as they walk—most of the little shops have started to shut down with the fading sunlight. He can dimly remember doing this same thing, a true lifetime ago, walking down cobblestone streets and watching the bustle of the community, and he glances over with his mouth open ready to speak—

But it's not Michael standing there, it's Jack, and something akin to empathy flashes briefly across his face before he lays an arm over Gavin's shoulders. “Let's go get a drink, yeah?” he offers, heading toward one of the bars still open. “You can tell me about Michael. Sound good?”

Gavin nods slowly; the emerald necklace feels inexplicably warm against his skin. 

“Yeah. Okay.”


	11. Chapter 11

Michael is still fuming when he returns to Ryan’s palace. He lands outside the door and snarls at the pallors guarding it, then storms inside, too angry to be mindful as he stalks up to Ryan’s throne. “I’ve returned, my King,” he says sourly, arms crossed as he glares at the back of the golden chair. “The hunt was successful.”  
   
“Very good.” Ryan’s voice sounds serene, almost lofty as he toys with something in his lap; Michael can’t make out what it is, but the motion of Ryan’s hands throw dancing shadows on the stone walls. “You and Kerry do make quite the team.”  
   
Michael’s hands clench into fists, and he fights down the snarl bubbling in his throat. “I didn’t need Kerry,” he spits, wings twitching irritably. “I had that fight under control, and he just fucking showed up to—“  
   
“He showed up because I told him to,” Ryan says, and if his voice was easygoing before it has now turned icy. “And you should be grateful that your King cares enough about your wellbeing to order reinforcements to your aid. I know many other demons who have not received such luxuries—and they aren’t with us anymore, are they, Michael?”  
   
Michael sighs quietly, the implied threat in Ryan’s tone more than enough to tamp down his ire. “No, my liege. They aren’t.”  
   
“Then perhaps you should be thankful for Kerry’s arrival,” the king says mildly, his own emotion changing just as fast. “I’ll leave you to ponder that. Dismissed.”  
   
Michael dips his head and turns away, quiet as he leaves the palace; he understands the point Ryan made, but some part of him—the warrior in him, he supposes—is still chapped by Kerry showing up to save the day. It eats at him, makes him bitter; the King can say what he likes, but something about Kerry still rubs Michael the wrong way.  
   
After a short pause, he decides to walk back to his lair—it gives him more time to think.  
   
__  
   
Ryan waits until he hears the door shut securely behind Michael to get up, shifting the Eye of Ender from his lap to tucked under his arm. He heads for the obsidian door set into the wall and opens it, immediately greeted by darkness; a quick murmur under his breath and a small flame comes to life in his palm, bright enough to light the way.  
   
He descends the cobblestone stairs, finally touching down on sand. The corridor is narrow here, with nothing but bare obsidian serving as walls; the firelight flickers upon it as he walks, heading toward a room he has come to call The Hole.  
   
The Hole is just that—a huge hole set into the sandy floor. He stops with the toes of his boots hanging off the edge, and peers down curiously; it’s too deep for him to see anything, even with the aid of his handheld torch, but he can hear the sounds of something massive moving around inside it, something bony scraping across walls, and that is enough for him. He tosses the Eye of Ender down into the seemingly-endless pit, and moments later there’s a brilliant flash of purple as it’s busted open; as soon as the color comes, however, it’s gone, and the sound of wet chomping echoes in the dim chamber as the beast starts to feed.  
   
“Oh Edgar,” Ryan says softly, kneeling on the edge of the hole with an affectionate smile on his face. “I have a job for you.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna see your Caveat of Demons fanart featured here? Leave a comment with a link!

Settled at the warmly-lit, busy bar with Jack, Gavin finds the memories of Michael come easier to him.

"I just don't understand," he mournfully mumbles, staring down into his goblet of golden nectar--the shimmering liquid that feels light on his tongue and tastes like whatever drink he wants. At the moment, the flavor of stout is a comfort. "How could he have...? Michael was always so kind! Sure, he could be a right prick at times, but he never meant any of it..."

"Sometimes these things happen," Jack replies gently. "While you knew him, he might have been a good guy. But who's to speak for how he behaved after your death?"

Gavin looks up sharply, wings perking. "That's another thing! I don't remember when I died! I know it had to be hundreds of years ago, but it feels like I've only been here for a few days...why?"

Jack sighs, shaking his head. "Gavin....let me explain something to you, buddy. The Overworld just doesn't work like most living people think--it's not able to run that quickly. People who die may wake up here decades after their time of death and not even know it. There's not really a rhyme or reason to it...the angels wake up when they are needed, and not before."

Gavin takes a drink as an excuse to ponder the information, then nods slowly. "So something is happening...and I'm needed here. In some way."

"Yes." Jack sets a hand on Gavin's shoulder, giving him a faint smile; Gavin meets his gaze, and finds his uneasiness melting away at the easy confidence Jack offers. "And you might find out why sooner than you think."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna see your Caveat of Demons fanart featured here? Leave a comment with a link!


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